


Binaural

by sci_fis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Inktober, Inktober 2019, M/M, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Underage sexual activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-23 10:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 11,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20890412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sci_fis/pseuds/sci_fis
Summary: A Stanford-era fic inspired by the Inktober prompts, starting with #1, "ring":The ringing of the phone has never been a good sign.





	1. Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pearl Jam.
> 
> _binaural: (of sound) recorded through two separate microphones and transmitted through two separate channels to produce a stereophonic effect._

The ringing of the phone has never been a good sign.

If he and Sam are together, the phone rarely rings; if it does, it’s probably ignored in favor of catching up with sleep or food or sex or whatever it is that they need the most at that particular time.

If they aren’t together, Dean dreads the phone ringing, particularly if the caller isn’t Sam, because his immediate fear is that the caller is going to say that something terrible has happened. To Sam.

When the phone rings while Sam is away at Stanford, Dean doesn’t need to tell himself that he’s being paranoid for no reason. He absolutely knows there’s a reason.

—

Sam doesn’t look small in the sterile hospital room with its white bed and its machines and its tubes and wires. He looks lost, at least to Dean. Maybe he’s seeing his reflection in his brother, after four months apart; maybe Dean’s lostness is imposing itself on Sam in a way it never had to before because he’d never been apart from Sam long enough—apart from that one time at Sonny’s—to consider either of them lost. They’d never be lost as long as they had each other in their sights.


	2. Mindless

If not for the call from the hospital—somehow, magically, Dean was still listed as Sam’s emergency contact—he’d probably have gone mindless with fear at Sam’s absence.

He has, of course, faithfully (not stalkerishly, he tells himself) followed Sam’s every move since the night he left. He tracks Sam. Sam lets him.

_I’m not leaving you,_ Sam had said, soft, patient, over and over, his lips against Dean’s skin. His mouth had mapped Dean’s cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his mouth, his jaw, his neck. He was saying goodbye because Dean wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that yes, damn it, Dean understood. He’d have gone away too if he were Sam.

He just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge how easy it had been for Sam to leave him.

_You’re deliberately misunderstanding,_ Sam had said, angry, fingers twisting into the front of Dean’s shirt because of Dean’s indifference. His cruelty.

When he said as much, Dean scoffed. _I’m the cruel one. Right._ For once, Sam had shut up.

Dean has spent the last four months wishing Sam hadn’t shut up. That he’d say something. But he isn’t saying anything at all, still and quiet in his hospital bed, as though Dean’s last words to him had left such an imprint of Dean’s antagonism on him that Sam has decided to remain unconscious rather than react to Dean’s presence.


	3. Bait

‘He was using himself as _bait_?’ Dean’s heard Bobby’s explanation, but his brain refuses to accept it at face value. ‘Why the hell would he do a damn fool thing like that?’

Bobby has no answers. Just the information that he’d let Sam know about a possible demon working out of Palo Alto.

‘And you had to ask Sam to work on it? Sam? Do you even remember that he went away to college because he didn’t _want_ to hunt anymore?’

There’s a moment’s pause. ‘That’s not necessarily why he went, Dean.’

‘Don’t tell me you know my brother better than me, Bobby. Don’t you fucking dare.’

Bobby begins to say something in response, but Dean cuts him off. ‘I don’t care about any of that, all right? Just tell me how to fix him.’


	4. Freeze

The landscape of Sam’s mind is frozen.

It’s like that episode of _Doctor Who_ in which the TARDIS was falling into a star that was burning cold, and everything on the ship became covered with frost. He’d always appreciated that particular paradox, _burning cold_, because it described Dean and him so well. They burned, alternately hot and cold, alternately fevered with want and frozen with indecision. The only thing Sam knows is that they’re good together, that nothing will make him believe that Dean’s skin against his, Dean’s mouth on the curve of his shoulder, is anything but right.

Dean disagrees. Always has.

Sam can smell engine oil and cologne, and he knows Dean’s there, sitting right next to him in the hospital. The hospital can do nothing for Sam. Dean should know better.

Sam should’ve known better than to take on this case, especially after what the demon had told him. Shown him.

_Accept it,_ the demon says. _Accept who you are. Your destiny._

Sam doesn’t believe in destiny.

He walks on in the snow, tracking the demon. Its mocking voice echoes in the hollow spaces in Sam’s head, the ones that Dean used to fill but doesn’t anymore.


	5. Build (Unbuild)

They were building something.

Dean and him. They’d been building something their whole lives. (Sam’s whole life. Because Dean’s life began at a time when Sam wasn’t there, because it included things Sam would never know.)

When Sam was little and had nightmares, Before He Knew, Dean would build a fort out of blankets and pillows for them. Nothing could ever touch them when they were in there. Sam didn’t know yet that he was in love with Dean. He didn’t have words for things yet. 

The best thing about the blanket fort was that it could go anywhere. Dean would build it in motel rooms, in rented houses, in their shared little storeroom-bedroom at Bobby’s, in the back seat of the Impala. Wherever Sam needed it, it would show up magically.

Dean’s arms were what held it up. Dean’s arms _were_ the fort; the blankets and stuff were just accessories. Dean. Dean Dean Dean.

That last night they’d seen each other officially (Sam knew Dean checked in on him at college when Sam wasn’t looking), Sam had wanted to pull the blanket from the back seat and drape it over their heads, kiss Dean under it, just like the first time. But he hadn’t. Because Dean was hurting and Sam was the reason. 

Dean had dropped him off at the bus station and returned to his hunter’s life, invisible threads unraveling behind the tires of the Impala, unbuilding everything that had kept Sam afloat for eighteen years.


	6. Husky

There’s a large husky standing in the snow in front of him. Sam recognizes her.

‘Beretta,’ he says, putting his hand on her head. She’s exactly the same as he remembers: tall enough that he doesn’t have to bend to scratch her ears.

He’d never known her real name. She was a runner, a dog who escaped from her home pretty much every single day and did the rounds of the neighborhood before heading back to wherever she’d come from. Dad had just started teaching Sam about different kinds of guns, and he’d named the dog after one, just to be contrary. Just to reclaim an ugly word by assigning it to a beautiful creature. Just to prove that some words, some meanings, could be redefined if you really wanted to change them badly enough.

Dean hadn’t laughed when Sam had told him about his secret name for the dog. ‘That’s such a Sammy thing to do,’ he’d said, ruffling Sam’s hair, his fingertips lingering for just a moment on Sam’s scalp, hidden beneath the waves of Sam’s hair like yet another secret.

He was fourteen then, craving his big brother’s accidental affection like oxygen, and he knew without the shadow of a doubt that he was well and truly fucked. 

‘You gonna help me?’ he says now, smiling. Beretta pushes her cold nose into his hand, whining, her tail a wagging blur of happiness. 

They set off along the frozen path, tracking the demon together. _Not long now_, Sam thinks, and he doesn’t know how he knows.

—

Sam’s still asleep, still unconscious, but his fingers stir on the sterile white bed, as though searching for something.

‘Hey,’ Dean whispers. He slides his fingers over Sam’s cold ones. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’

He doesn’t know if Sam can hear him. 

He’d have gone wild with terror if he didn’t know that Dad was on his way, bringing help.


	7. Enchanted

Sam’s sleep is enchanted.

Dean knows as much. He’s just waiting for Dad to reach the hospital and confirm it.

He’d lost count of the number of times he’d teased Sam in the past—Before He Left—by calling him ‘Princess’ and ‘Samantha’, by ruffling that silky-smooth hair and wishing his fingers could stay buried in it a little longer.

And then, suddenly, he was allowed to touch Sam’s hair as much as he wanted to. That first time, when Sam was fourteen, when he leaned in under the blanket fort that both of them were much, much too big for... That first time, his magical features lit by the glow of the book light Dean had gifted him for no reason, Sam had shaken back the too-long waves of his stupid shiny hair and taken a deep breath like one might do before drowning. But Dean had been the one who drowned. 

—

In stories about enchantments, spells are always broken when you kiss the one who’s sleeping. 

Sam doesn’t wake when Dean brushes his lips lightly over Sam’s, but his fingers squeeze Dean’s, as though he knows. 

—

‘What is it?’ Sam whispers. Beretta is silent and still next to him, her tail stiff with alertness. 

His lips are tingling. His hand feels empty. 

Someone’s heading their way across the cold, barren ground, boots crunching on the shining snow.


	8. Frail

‘Dean,’ Sam says. His hand tightens in the soft fur on Beretta’s head. She doesn’t move.

‘Hey, kiddo,’ Dean says. His smile is huge and warm, as though all the love between them hadn’t been reduced to the frailest of threads.

He’s so tall, so bright. Brighter than all the glittering snow around them. As bright as the brother Sam remembers, the one who fills up all his vision until there’s nothing else to see. 

‘C’mere,’ Dean says. He opens his arms.

‘Dean,’ Sam whispers. It’s beyond his strength to say no, to be anywhere but inside the circle of Dean’s arms. He presses his nose against the warm, bare skin of Dean’s neck, breathing in deep. ‘Dean.’

‘Yeah, sweetheart,’ Dean murmurs, arms strong around Sam’s body, nuzzling Sam’s face. ‘I’m here. Right here.’

‘You… you aren’t mad?’

‘At you?’ Dean says, still in that curiously soft voice. He speaks the words into Sam’s cheek, right into his skin. ‘No, baby. Never you. If anything, I’m mad at myself for letting you go. For not being able to save you from this. Whatever this is.’

‘It’s the demon,’ Sam says. 

‘I know.’

‘What—how are you here?’

‘I dunno.’ Dean’s brow is furrowed. ‘One moment I was sitting next to you in the hospital, and the next I was here. Maybe I fell asleep.’

‘I’m not dreaming, Dean. And neither are you.’

‘I don’t care what this is, as long as I’m with you.’ Dean cups Sam’s face with his warm, gloved hands and kisses him gently.

Sam melts into it, fisting his hands in the front of Dean’s familiar, beloved jacket, feeling the comforting sharpness of Dean’s amulet dig into his skin. 

‘I missed this so much,’ Dean whispers into his mouth as they stand wrapped around each other. ‘Missed you so much, Sammy.’

Next to Sam, Beretta growls.


	9. Swing

_You’re the swing-set, and I’m the kid that falls._ Dean has always teased Sam endlessly about his love for Pink, but Sam has always thought that some of her lyrics are pretty damned accurate when it comes to describing his life.

‘Sshh,’ he says to Beretta, caressing the top of her head as they stand there in the snow, Dean kissing his way down Sam’s neck. 

‘You talking to me or the dog?’ Dean grins against his neck, nipping lightly at his skin. His big hands are on Sam’s ass, cupping and squeezing in a show of desire that Sam hasn’t seen since this thing between them first started. 

Sam tilts his head back, letting go of the dog to wrap both arms around Dean’s neck, savoring the moment while it lasts. 

‘Wanna make love to you so bad,’ Dean says with a groan, his face buried in Sam’s hair.

Something stirs in Sam’s mind, like an awareness of _wrongness_. He ignores it. For now. 

—

Dean startles awake as a hand falls on his shoulder. 

‘Dad!’

‘Hey, Dean.’ Dad nods towards Sam’s still form. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘He hasn’t woken at all. Must be a spell of some kind.’

‘It’s not a spell.’

‘Then what is it?’

Dad looks around. ‘Best not to talk about it here. You wanna step out for a bit?’

‘I’m not leaving him.’ Dad should know better than to ask.

Dad makes an impatient sound. ‘Fine. Sit here and be useless, then.’

He walks out of the room, leaving Dean blinking after him.

‘What the actual fuck, Sammy,’ Dean says aloud, as though Sam can hear him. He gets to his feet, dropping a quick kiss on Sam’s forehead. ‘Really sorry, okay? I’ll be back in a minute, I promise.’


	10. Pattern

There’s a pattern to what Dean’s saying, to how he’s acting. 

Sam pulls away from his arms, shivering. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Dean asks, stepping towards him, concern carved into his face.

‘I needed that,’ Sam says, soft.

‘I’m still here.’ Dean gives him a confused little quirk of his lips, his arms still wide open. ‘We’re not done. Not yet.’

‘You knew I needed it. You thought I’d fall for it.’

‘What?’ Dean’s smile vanishes completely. ‘I’m—I don’t understand.’

‘You can quit playing games with me,’ Sam says, weary. He sits down on a fallen log, looking down at his empty hands. ‘_Baby. Sweetheart._ You think Dean would ever use those words?’

‘Sammy—’

Sam cuts him off with a brief, humorless laugh. ‘_Making love_? Dean would sooner cut off his tongue than call it that. He’d call it _fucking_, plain and simple. This… this mockery of Dean? It’s not him. Don’t insult me.’

‘Sam.’ Dean’s down on one knee next to him, his hand hovering over Sam’s shoulder. ‘Sammy, listen to me. Whatever it is that’s got you, it’s making you think—’

‘No,’ Sam says, rough. He pushes his hands into his hair, pressing his face to his drawn-up knees. ‘Leave me alone.’

—

Dad holds out a cup of steaming coffee like a peace offering. 

Dean takes it.

He insists on going back to the corridor outside Sam’s room before continuing the conversation, taking a chair outside the open door so that Sam is in his line of vision. 

It’s not much of a conversation, really: mostly Dad talking and Dean listening, unable to find any words appropriate enough to describe the horror of what he’s hearing.

‘Demon blood,’ he says finally, long after Dad has stopped talking.

Dad just nods.

‘What—what’s it doing to him?’

‘I don’t know. Obviously nothing good.’

‘Tell me you just found out about this.’ Dean can’t take his eyes off Sam, so still and quiet. So little-brother-innocent, still. Always. ‘Tell me you had no idea until now. Until just now.’


	11. Snow

Dad lets out a long breath. ‘I’ve known for a while.’

It’s the answer Dean’s been dreading.

‘How long?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Long enough for _what_?’

‘Long enough to think of how to combat it. What to do.’ Dad crumples the empty paper cup in his hand.

‘And? What do we do?’

‘For now? Nothing. Wait.’

‘Wait for what? For Sam to turn into some sort of demon?’

‘We won’t let that happen,’ Dad says, calm.

‘So we can save him?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ Dad says. He doesn’t look at Dean.

Dean knows what he’s saying.

—

_Leave me alone_, Sam thinks.

But Dean doesn’t. He stays crouched beside Sam in the snow, his hand on Sam’s knee, quiet. There’s no sign of Beretta. 

‘What do you want?’ Sam says finally, lifting his head. He doesn’t look at Dean. Not-Dean. Whoever. The snow is dazzling brightly around them.

‘Right now, I want to get you someplace warm. It’ll be night soon.’

‘I’m not planning on staying here.’

‘I wanna help you wake up, Sam. I swear. Let’s… let’s just find some shelter, yeah?’

‘I’ll give you points for trying,’ Sam says. ‘But you can keep trying to mess with me. It’s not going to work.’

Not-Dean gets to his feet and walks away. 

—

‘You’re saying that if we can’t save Sam, we’ll have to…’ Dean can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. The thought isn’t worth thinking, let alone saying aloud.

‘Sam’s in a bad place,’ Dad says. ‘He has been since he was six months old. We just didn’t know it.’

He’s got his phone in his hand, and he’s saying something about calling someone. Bobby, maybe. 

Dean’s not listening. He’d been so sure that Dad would turn up with some magical solution to wake Sam up, to make him okay.

He brushes past his father, goes into Sam’s room, and shuts the door behind him.


	12. Dragon

Dean steals Sam when Dad isn’t looking.

Compared to all the undercover stuff he’s done in the past, it’s probably one of the easiest operations he’s ever pulled off: find a doctor’s coat and an unattended wheelchair, get his comatose brother dressed—with some difficulty—and into the chair, and wheel him out of the building through a side door (because Dad’s in the lobby, still on the phone).

‘There you go,’ Dean says when Sam’s in the shotgun seat, his limp body curled against the passenger-side door. ‘I know you probably think this is crazy.’ He brushes Sam’s hair away from his forehead. ‘I just… I dunno what else to do, Sammy.’

It’s only when they’re safely inside a motel room—a few miles off the highway, making it difficult to figure out that they’re there—that he takes a moment to breathe deeply. Getting Sam into bed requires carrying him from the car, which is easier than it sounds; the kid’s clearly lost a lot of weight in the last few months.

‘Gotta feed you up,’ Dean mutters, tucking the blankets around Sam. 

Then he calls Bobby.

‘John’s furious,’ Bobby says, calm.

‘Yeah, I figured.’

‘And you took off because?’

‘He said if we can’t save Sam, we’ll have to kill him.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t say that, Dean.’

‘You weren’t there.’

There’s a moment of silence, and Dean can practically hear the wheels turning in Bobby’s head. If he demands to know where Dean is, Dean may simply hang up and remain out of touch. If he stays calm and listens, it’s his best chance of letting John know where the boys are.

‘How can I help?’ Bobby says finally.

Dean tells him.

—

While he waits, Dean looks unabashedly through Sam’s bag. It’s been in the car where he put it after Sam was found unconscious in the woods with the duffle next to him.

It’s the same bag Dean had given Sam when he was sixteen. It’s worn now after two years of hard use but still adorned lovingly with Harry Potter and LotR badges, little signs of Sam’s geekery that are comforting to see and touch now. Dean holds the bag in his lap and runs his thumb over one of Sam’s favorite badges: Aithusa, a white dragon from Arthurian legend. Sam had been beside himself with joy to find it at a tiny comic book convention they’d been to at a town Dean’s long forgotten the name of.

In the little sketch, the white dragon—her birth the sign of a good era for Albion, Sam had told Dean over celebratory strawberry waffles after the convention—is flying with her wings spread wide, a happy, puppy-like smile on her little dragon-face. Dean’s vision blurs with wetness. 

Blinking furiously, he crawls into bed next to Sam and presses his mouth to Sam’s shoulder. ‘Not long now,’ he promises. ‘I’m coming for you, Sammy.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aithusa is actually from BBC Merlin rather than Arthurian mythology (afaik), but the show aired after this era in Sam and Dean's timeline, so I couldn't mention it. ;) And I really wanted Aithusa to be Sam's favorite dragon. <3


	13. Ash

Sam waits exactly thirty seconds after Not-Dean’s back is turned to get up and run in the opposite direction.

Part of him knows, logically, that there’s no use running from the very thing that’s keeping him prisoner inside his own mind, but there’s something about this fake version of his brother that tears into Sam the way nothing else can, not even the demon.

The demon. Sam had found Azazel three days ago: or perhaps Azazel had found Sam. Perhaps Sam had only imagined he was successfully demon-hunting, while all the time it was the demon blood in his own veins that had been leading him to his future. His _destiny_, Azazel had called it. To be a _special child_.

_You’re my favorite_, he can still hear the demon say. _I’m rooting for you, Sam Winchester._

All Sam has to do is agree.

Not focused on where he’s going, he trips suddenly over a tree root hidden in the snow and goes tumbling down a brief incline.

‘Hey, whoa,’ an unknown voice says. ‘You okay, Sam?’

Sam looks up from the ground, pushing snow out of his eyes. ‘Do I know you?’

‘Ah, not this again.’ The man is wearing a quirky black mask that covers the top half of his face, like a carnival mask from one of those themed parties. He reaches out a hand. ‘Come with me if you wanna live.’

‘Are you for real?’ Ignoring the proffered hand, Sam gets to his feet and brushes himself off. ‘Who even says that?’

‘Some of us have been waiting forever to say it.’ The man keeps his arm outstretched. ‘Ash.’

Sam takes his hand briefly. ‘I’d introduce myself, but you already seem to know who I am.’

‘The number of times you and Dean have been here,’ Ash says, grinning. ‘But you forget. You always forget.’ He glances up at Sam’s hair. ‘Your haircut tells me this may be the earliest time yet.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘I don’t always meet you in the right order,’ Ash says. ‘It’s… timey-wimey.’

‘_Doctor Who_? Really?’

Ash shrugs. ‘What better way to get through to a sci-fi geek?’

‘Where is this place? Why are you here? Why are you saying that Dean and I keep ending up here?’

‘Let’s just say it’s a no man’s land of sorts,’ Ash says, looking around and lowering his voice. ‘A kind of limbo where different planes collide. Heaven, hell, purgatory, dreamlands, everything.’


	14. Overgrown

Ash leads the way through a landscape overgrown with thick shrubs and pine trees, the brown of the bare wintered branches struggling to be seen through their coats of white frost. Sam follows blindly, stumbling occasionally. 

‘Sammy!’ Not-Dean’s voice echoes through the cold air the moment Ash stops in front of a large wooden cabin and pushes open the door.

‘I told you to leave me alone,’ Sam says. It comes out wearier than he’d intended. ‘I thought—I thought you’d left.’

‘As if I’d leave you. Ever,’ Dean says, gentle.

Sam closes his eyes for a despairing moment. ‘I already told you I don’t buy the act. Dean would… he’d never…’

‘Trouble in paradise?’ Ash asks, raising his eyebrows.

‘Don’t even ask.’ Sam follows him inside, knowing Not-Dean is right behind.

—

‘Right,’ Ash says, setting a couple of cold beers and a bowl of peanuts on the counter. The interior of the cabin is much larger than the outside, in true _Doctor Who_ style, and resembles a bar. ‘The last time I saw you two in here, it was, I dunno, about a few years in your future. Four or five, I’d say. So I’m gonna be very careful about what I say, because, y’know. Spoilers.’

‘I don’t care about five years from now,’ Not-Dean says. He tilts his head towards Sam. ‘How do we fix him?’

Sam would have protested that he isn’t broken, except he kinda is.

Ash looks from Dean to Sam. ‘Honestly? Anybody’s guess. I haven’t figured out everything about how this place works. You saw the sigil on the door outside? That keeps that angels out. I’ve figured out how to lie low, but that’s about it.’

‘Angels,’ Sam and Dean say together.

Sam bites his lip and looks away.

‘Angels? Freaking angels are real?’ Dean—Not-Dean—says, sounding exactly like the real Dean.

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ Ash mutters, chugging down half his own beer in one go. ‘And I’m not gonna tell you,’ he adds hastily.


	15. Legend

If there were legends about the Winchester family, Sam thinks, they’d all say that it was cursed.

Because it’s nothing less than a curse to have a fake version of his brother looking at Sam like he’s the most important person in the world: looking at Sam like that in front of _actual other people_. It’s right out of Sam’s dreams, the idea that Dean would accept their relationship as _their_ normal, even if it weren’t everyone else’s: as something that wasn’t tainted or wrong but actually really good for both of them.

He’d seen how Dean seemed to spark to life when Sam was in his arms. There was a brightness in his eyes when they had sex, when they did something as simple as sit with their shoulders pressed against each other in a diner somewhere. For some inexplicable reason, Dean himself has never seemed to be able to identify the source of his own happiness.

And now there’s this puppy-dog version of him wanting to love Sam, and Sam can’t get far enough away from him.

‘You should cut him a bit of slack,’ Ash suggests in a low voice. Tired of Sam ignoring him, Not-Dean is playing pool with himself at a table in the corner.

‘He’s not Dean.’ Sam looks over at his supposed brother, who chooses that moment to let out a very Dean-like growl of triumph. He looks up and meets Sam’s gaze, grinning when he realizes that Sam is looking back. Sam glances away quickly.

‘There’s nothing to suggest that it isn’t him,’ Ash says, almost in a whisper now. 

‘What do you mean? How could you possibly know?’

‘I’ve been around for a while,’ Ash says, a bit wistfully. ‘You learn to tell the difference between human and nonhuman. Between us and… not us.’

Sam nurses his beer and considers Ash’s words. There’s no doubt that they’ve set off a spark of hope in him, but he needs to remember that Ash is a stranger to him; worse, he’s almost certainly been planted there by the demon to mess with Sam’s head. 

He needs to remember that he’s completely alone.


	16. Wild

Night is falling in Sam’s dream world. The landscape looks wilder in the falling darkness, less understandable.

‘Is it always like this?’ he asks when he hears footsteps behind him, thinking it’s Ash.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Not-Dean says, stepping into place beside Sam, the place that’s been Dean’s for all of Sam’s life.

‘You’re not him,’ Sam says, stubborn. ‘So quit acting like it.’

‘You sure did like kissing me, though.’

‘Fuck you,’ Sam says, mild, tired. ‘I just wanna wake up.’

‘Remember when you were twelve, and I found you with that kid from your class?’

Sam’s head whips around, his eyes narrowing. ‘How do you…’

‘You were supposed to be doing homework, sitting with him at the dining table. And then I came home early and found you holding a boy’s hand. You jumped up so quickly, you knocked your chair over. Like I’d caught you doing something bad.’

Sam looks away. ‘I. I waited two years to talk about it. You—Dean told me it was okay. He told me he’d always support me, no matter what I wanted to do. He told me I wasn’t abnormal or wrong.’

‘Sammy—’

‘He was right in a way. About the liking boys thing. But I was wrong. I still am. I was turned wrong by you. You forced your blood into me when I was six months old. You killed my mom. And I’ve been wrong ever since.’

‘I’m not him, Sam. I’m not the demon.’

‘Who the fuck cares.’ 

Sam goes back inside the cabin that’s bigger on the inside. Ash has wandered off somewhere. He sinks into one of the comfortable couches, leaning back and closing his eyes. 

‘You’re not wrong. You’re not abnormal.’

Sam doesn’t open his eyes. ‘How much more abnormal does it get than having demon blood in your veins?’

‘It doesn’t define you.’ Dean’s voice is quiet. ‘It’s not who you are. Not all of you. You know why I was okay with everything between us? Because you wanted it. Because you are so fucking _good_ in every way that I knew anything you wanted couldn’t be bad or wrong. There is not one fucking bad bone in your body.’

‘Don’t,’ Sam says, a prickling in his eyes. ‘Just. Please.’

‘Okay.’ The person who looks like Dean squeezes his knee. ‘It’s okay.’


	17. Ornament

‘The Christmas you gave me this,’ Dean says after a long silence, touching the pendant around his neck. ‘We made ornaments for the tree. Someone, a girl from your class, had shown you how to paint eggshells with nail polish. We used food coloring from the kitchen that wasn’t ours. Hung multicolored eggshells from the branches. We ate icing from a tube in the fridge, put it over sweet buns and called it Christmas cake. We binge-watched stupid Christmas movies on TV and fell asleep on the couch in the middle of _Miracle on 34th Street._ You were happy. I made sure you were happy even though Dad wasn’t there.’

Sam is crying now, silent and unstoppable tears sliding down his cheeks. He makes no move to wipe them away. 

‘Baby,’ Dean whispers, his thumbs under Sam’s eyes, gently swiping at Sam’s tears. His lips are pressed to Sam’s temple, his body so warm next to Sam’s on the couch. ‘My baby boy.’

‘Dean doesn’t call me that.’ Sam shifts closer, pushing his face into Dean’s neck. ‘Dean thinks I’m a fucking abomination.’

‘I don’t,’ says the person who looks like his brother. ‘I never have.’

‘You don’t,’ Sam says with an almost-smile. ‘That’s how I know you’re not him.’

Sam tilts his head up for a kiss, and he’s not disappointed. They kiss gently, tenderly, no guilt behind it, careful fingers petting and stroking Sam’s hair, arms tight and protective around him as he’s held securely. He lets himself have the moment, takes it for whatever it means, and kisses back hungrily, wanting more, wanting everything he’s ever been deprived of.

With Dean—the Dean in the real, waking world—it’s always been hidden, rushed, filled with Dean’s guilt and Sam’s frustration. Here, in this welcoming cabin with the cold wind locked outside, Sam’s safe and warm with someone who loves him so very, very much.

It doesn’t last. Of course it doesn’t.

The door slams open, letting in a rush of icy air. 

‘The fuck is going on here?’

Dean’s in the doorway, snow on his shoulders and in his hair, rage and terror in his eyes as he looks at the two of them entangled together on the couch.


	18. Misfit

Considering that Sam has never really fit in anywhere his whole life, it’s weird how well his body seems to fit against Dean’s. Not-Dean’s.

They’re still frozen in each other’s arms, watching Dean in the doorway, who seems one step away from exploding and taking the entire universe with him.

‘Sam,’ Dean says, his gun pointed squarely at the other Dean’s chest. ‘Get away from him. And you? Get your fucking hands off my brother.’

‘Dean,’ Sam says, not letting go of Not-Dean. ‘It’s okay. I asked him to. I wanted it.’

‘You thought he was me,’ Dean counters. But then he stares at Sam as though seeing him there for the first time. ‘Didn’t you? Sammy, tell me you thought that was me.’

‘I knew he wasn’t you,’ Sam says, gentle, even though he knows nothing will really soften this particular blow. 

‘Right.’ Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. ‘Course you did.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘I’m not saying anything in front of that.’ Dean jerks his head towards his doppelgänger. 

Sam squeezes the hand he’s still holding. ‘D, will you give us a minute?’

‘Sure, baby.’ Not-Dean presses a kiss to the side of Sam’s head and gets up. He trails his fingertips briefly down Sam’s cheek. ‘Just holler if you need me. I’ll be right outside.’

He leaves without a glance at Dean. 

‘“D”? You fucking call him “D”?’

Sam shrugs. ‘I can’t keep calling him Not-Dean.’

‘And “baby”? Fucking seriously, Sam?’

‘If you can call your car “baby,” I don’t see why someone who loves me can’t call me that.’

‘Someone who... what? Sam, do you even hear yourself? The guy’s probably a fucking demon.’

‘I’m aware, thanks.’ Sam rubs his eyes, weary. ‘So how did you get here?’

‘Dream root,’ Dean says shortly. 

‘Ah. Good thinking.’


	19. Sling

‘Who is he?’ Dean gestures towards the open door.

‘I dunno, Dean. But he’s... he’s not bad. I can feel it.’

‘Yeah, I bet you can,’ Dean mutters. ‘He sure did feel you up pretty good.’

‘Dean, it wasn’t like that.’

‘Really, Sam?’ Dean takes a step towards him. 

‘What’re you doing?’ Sam asks, wary. He doesn’t step away. 

‘Gimme a break here.’ Dean sounds as though he’s in pain. As though he’s just taken a slingshot to the chest. ‘You’ve been unconscious for three days. Just... just lemme fucking hold you for a second.’

‘Oh,’ Sam says, and he goes into Dean’s arms. 

Unlike D, this Dean is rigid with tension, his body quivering like it may fly apart any second. 

‘It’s all right,’ Sam says, tightening his hold on Dean. 

‘It’s really not,’ Dean says with a hollow laugh, pulling away. ‘You’re still out of it, and I don’t know how to wake you.’

‘Is Dad there?’

Dean hesitates for a moment. ‘Yeah. Course he is.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘He’s okay with you dream walking in my mind? I find that hard to believe.’

‘He—It’s complicated, okay?’

‘Yeah, I’ll bet it is. He wants to kill me.’

‘Sam, no.’

‘It told me, Dean. The demon told me.’

‘You’ve been _talking_ to it?’

‘It’s not difficult, Dean. It’s inside me.’

Dean frowns. ‘You mean the blood thing?’

‘No. I mean it possessed me. It’s in me right now.’

‘What?’ Dean pales. ‘But it... but you’re unconscious.’

‘It’s not. It’s awake inside me.’ Sam grabs Dean’s wrist. ‘Dean, tell me you’re not alone with me right now. With my body. Tell me Dad and others are there.’

‘No one’s there,’ Dean says, his voice a whisper. 

‘Dean,’ Sam chokes out. ‘He said he needs me, but not you. He said he’d kill you if you got in the way. Dean. Oh, god.’ He grabs the lapels of Dean’s jacket, frantic. ‘You have to go. You have to wake up, before he—’


	20. Tread

‘Before he what?’ A smooth, silky voice interrupts Sam.

He turns to the open doorway to see Azazel there, just outside the threshold. 

The demon smiles, his eyes a sickly pale yellow, and Sam’s hands, which were clutching the front of Dean’s jacket, are suddenly empty, fingers tripping over thin air.

‘What did you do?’ Sam says. It sounds like a scream. Dean has vanished as though he was never there.

‘I warned you what would happen.’

‘No. No, please. He didn’t know. We didn’t—’

‘Enough, Samuel. Your precious brother is safe. For now. Unless you decide to keep defying me, in which case, well. Let’s just say—’

‘Safe how? Where is he? I need to see him.’

The demon smiles. ‘Looks like you already have a better version of him.’ 

He tilts his head, and Sam sees D behind him.

‘Get out of my way,’ D says. He pushes past Azazel into the cabin, followed by two large dogs.

‘Beretta,’ Sam says. ‘Bones!’

Beretta wags her tail in greeting, but Bones is far more enthusiastic, jumping up at Sam and slobbering all over him.

‘Isn’t this touching,’ Azazel says with a smile. ‘Sam Winchester, here in this place where both angels and demons fear to tread, reunited with all the creatures who love you most.’

‘This is a sick game,’ Sam says, reluctantly pushing Bones away. D is standing quietly next to Sam, and the sight of him is making Sam frantic with worry for the real Dean. ’What do you hope to gain from it?’

‘Me?’ Azazel smiles broadly. He’s still outside the door, and somewhere in his panicked brain, Sam registers that the demon can’t seem to get closer to him.

‘No, no, Sammy. This is all your doing,’ Azazel continues, grinning. ‘I am so fucking proud of how powerful you are.’


	21. Treasure

‘How is this my doing?’ 

Sam feels D’s arm around him, and for a moment, he allows himself to feels D’s warm, reassuring presence. Then he shrugs off D’s arm.

‘Explain what you mean.’

‘You haven’t figured it out yet? Smart boy like you? Tsk, tsk. I gave you more credit, Sammy.’

‘Only Dean gets to call me that, you asshole.’

‘Such fire. So much promise,’ Azazel says, still with that infuriating smile on his face. ‘Your brother, these dogs—everyone you love, everyone you treasure; you brought them to life. Dean here? He’s one hundred percent Dean Winchester, with one added bonus: he’s your perfect version of your brother. Even better than the real thing.’

‘You’re lying,’ Sam says, ‘Everything you say is a lie.’

‘I haven’t lied to you once, Samuel. Think about it. I showed you everything you needed to know. Everything your father has kept from you. Right now, I’m the one you wants you alive. Not John Winchester. So tell me: who’s your real father? Who’s the one who wants to protect you, nurture your gifts? Give you whatever you want?’

Azazel glances at D. ‘_Everything_ you want. You think John Winchester would give you both his blessings? You think he’d be any less likely to kill you if he knew how you feel about your brother?’

‘Shut up,’ Sam whispers. ‘Just shut up.’

‘See the truth for what it is, Samuel.’ Azazel smiles benevolently at them both. ‘Work for me, and you’ll have the brother you always wanted. Always by your side, just as you’ve dreamed your whole life. No family business, no pesky guilt keeping you apart. Hell, I’ll throw you a wedding myself.’

‘Sam! Dean!’ Ash’s voice rings out from somewhere behind Sam. ‘Get down!’

Sam ducks on instinct, his gut taking over. Ash moves past him in a blur, throwing himself against the door and slamming it shut.

‘Well, that was close,’ Ash says, grinning around at them.

‘What the fuck?’ D says. ‘All we needed to do was… close the fucking door?’

‘He can’t get in. Nothing supernatural can.’ Ash gestures to the intricate sigils carved into the door. ‘Only humans. Just a little trick of mine.’


	22. Ghost

‘Sammy,’ Dean says as soon as his eyes open.

Shaking his head to try to chase away the lingering sleepiness from the dream root, he cautiously approaches Sam’s unconscious form. 

‘Sam?’

It’s a while before Sam stirs, his eyes blinking sleepily open. ‘Dean?’

‘Sammy? That you?’

‘Afraid not,’ Sam says around a yawn. His eyes are glowing with a strange yellow light. 

‘Azazel.’

‘Nothing gets past you, bright boy.’

‘Cut the crap. What do you want?’

‘Now, Dean. Is that any way to talk to the guy holding your baby brother hostage? I could’ve lied to you, said I was little Sammy. Don’t I get points for my honesty?’

‘You knew you’d never fool me.’

Azazel smiles. ‘No, of course not.’ He runs his hands over Sam’s torso. ‘You know this body too well, don’t you?’

‘I know my brother, you asshole. Trying to guilt me isn’t going to get you anywhere.’

‘Oh, but I’m not. Don’t you see? I don’t care if you and Sam are fucking. All those pesky societal regulations, all those rules that don’t make any sense, they’re for sheep. Not for the likes of us.’

‘What do you want?’ Dean asks again, the words clipped. Fear for Sam is curled around him like a too-warm blanket, and he forces himself to measure his breaths carefully. He can’t panic now. Sam needs him to stay calm. 

‘Sam already knows. It’s up to him now.’

‘Whatever you want, Sam is never gonna give in to you. Never.’

‘Even if it’s your life on the line?’ Azazel smiles, spreading his arms. ‘You see, Dean? I really do hold all the cards right now.’

‘You want to turn him into a demon? Is that it? Killing our mom wasn’t enough?’

‘Dean, Dean, Dean. You have to let your mother’s ghost go. Have a little imagination. I can get demons a dime a dozen in hell.’

‘Don’t fucking talk about her. Tell me why you want Sam.’

‘Your daddy already told you. Sam’s my boy. My blood runs through his beautiful veins. He’s the best of my special children.’

‘He’s not yours.’ Dean grits his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. ‘He’ll never be yours.’

‘He can be yours, Dean. All yours. Haven’t you seen how powerful he is? He _conjured_ you and those dogs from nothing. A mind like that, a force like that? All yours?’

Dean smiles. ‘You know nothing about him. Or me, you asshole. He’s already mine, powers or not. And I’d love him even if he was less than half the person he is.’ He glances down at the floor. ‘Like the redecorating I did while you were sleeping?’

Azazel follows Dean’s gaze and notices the devil’s trap around the bed. 

‘Very cute, Dean. You think this will hold me?’

‘Yeah, I really think it will.’

‘You do realize that as long as I’m trapped here, Sam is too? You can’t hold me for long.’

‘Oh, I won’t need to. You see, Sam’s in there right now figuring out how to cast you out. I just need to hold you long enough.’


	23. Ancient

‘D,’ Sam says, tired. ‘Stop fucking pacing. You’re making me dizzy.’

D grunts in response, reluctantly taking a seat on a barstool and wrapping his fingers around the neck of a fresh bottle of beer. 

‘There must be something,’ he says to Ash. ‘Something you know that can help us.’

Ash lifts a shoulder. ‘Damned if I know.’

‘You said we’ve been here before. Many times,’ Sam says, remembering. 

‘You guys die more than anyone else I know.’

‘Sam dies? More than once?’ D says, pained.

‘So do you,’ Sam points out. The thought settles in his gut like something large and hollow. ‘But we don’t stay dead?’ He looks at Ash. 

Ash holds up his hands. ‘Look, dude, I’ve already said way more than I should.’

‘Spoilers. Right.’

‘The hell does that mean? Huh?’ D looks ready to punch something. ‘You know something that can help us now, but you won’t say anything because of some stupid rule?’

Ash shrugs again. ‘Think what you like. I’m not gonna be the one who disturbs the balance of the universe or whatever, man. And really, nothing I know could help you. I never knew about any of this.’

‘D,’ Sam says. ‘Calm down.’

‘You calm down,’ D mutters, returning to his beer.

He sounds so much like the real Dean that Sam has to smile a little. 

He’s always thought that his and Dean’s relationship is older than either of them, ancient in a way that neither of them can really understand. All these revelations about himself, who he is and the things he’s supposedly meant to do, are somehow less important than Dean, less important than the fact that his brother is currently out there in the real world with the most dangerous demon they’ve ever come across. One who’s possessing Sam’s body. 

‘He really can’t get in here? The demon?’

‘Nope. Not even if he’s possessing you. Although I think that’s more a reflection of your powers than any talent I have at drawing sigils.’

‘So you could stay here indefinitely,’ D says. ‘Hypothetically. And he could never get you.’

‘He has Dean,’ Sam says. ‘That makes staying here very much not an option.’

‘I’m a fighter,’ D says. ‘You know you don’t have to worry about me.’

Sam pets Bones’s head. ‘I have to worry about you exactly as much as you do about me.’

D scowls at his beer. 

‘No time like the present,’ Sam continues conversationally, getting to his feet. 

‘You’re going out there now?’ D stands up too, beer forgotten. ‘Right now? Without a plan?’

‘I’m going to talk to Azazel. If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.’

Both Ash and D are silent.


	24. Dizzy

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Sam says, eyebrows raised, as D follows him to the door. The dogs are right behind, looking up at both of them expectantly, as though anticipating an unexpected walk.

‘If you think I’m letting you go out there alone—’

‘What part of _he wants you dead_ don’t you get, D?’

D shrugs. ‘But I’m not really alive, am I? I’m a product of your imagination.’ He says it gently, not as though he’s bitter about it. Reaching up, he taps Sam’s temple. ‘I’m from your giant geek brain.’ His voice is fond. ‘That demon asshole can’t hurt me. You’ll just bring me back.’

Sam shakes his head. ‘No. No way. I’m not risking you.’

‘He’s right, Sam. I’m sure of it.’ Ash looks from D to Sam. ‘Look, you guys. I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but. Uh. I don’t think the demon will hurt Dean. The real Dean, I mean.’ He glances quickly at D. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken,’ D says cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Why d’you say that? Cause you’ve seen some future version of me alive and well?’

‘Um, partly.’ Ash looks nervous now. ‘Look, guys. There’s—there’s a helluva lot you don’t know about what lies ahead. I don’t—somehow, I don’t think this Azazel dude is allowed to kill either of you.’

‘Allowed? By whom?’ Sam says, sharp. 

‘I just. I don’t know, all right? I died before I could find out about all of it. Just. Trust me on this.’

D exchanges a look with Sam. ‘We’re sorry,’ he says, quiet. 

Ash grins. ‘Ah, I’m over it. Y’all be careful, now.’

‘We will. Thanks for everything, Ash.’ Sam clasps hands with Ash.

‘Lock the door behind us,’ D says. 

—

The outside of the cabin is exactly as it was before, except for one obvious difference. 

‘Baby!’ D says, exhilarated. 

‘Couldn’t leave you without your car,’ Sam says, smiling.

‘Wait. Leave me?’

‘I have to wake up, D. And I can’t take you with me.’

‘Should’ve seen that one coming,’ D mutters. He goes around to the driver’s side. ‘Follow the road, right?’

‘That’s what Ash said.’ Sam lets the dogs into the back of the car.

D, to his credit, doesn’t say one word against dogs in the car.

Sam is about to climb in when a sharp pain explodes behind his eyes, bringing him to his knees in the snow.

‘Sammy!’ D is beside him in a second. ‘What is it? What’s happening?’

‘Vision,’ Sam whispers, dizzy with pain and nausea. He clutches at the front of D’s jacket.


	25. Tasty

Sam comes to in D’s arms, shivering.

‘Dean?’

‘Close enough.’ D squeezes him tightly. ‘You had me worried, sweetheart.’

‘M’okay,’ Sam says, struggling to sit up.

‘You sure?’ D doesn’t take his hands off Sam. ‘What was that about?’

‘I—I saw you. Dean. I don’t know.’

‘Out there? In the real world?’

‘No.’ Sam squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. ‘Didn’t look like it. It looked... fuck, D. It looked like...’

‘Like what?’

‘Like hell,’ Sam whispers. ‘You... you were... hanging from... from meathooks. You were screaming my name.’

‘It’s just the demon messing with you,’ D says, soothing.

‘I hope so.’ With D’s help, Sam gets to his feet.

‘You wanna go back inside for a while? Rest a bit before we go on?’

‘No. There’s no time.’

—

‘So, this is boring,’ Azazel says around an exaggerated yawn. He gives Dean a look that can only be described as a leer, twisting Sam’s sweet features into something ugly. ‘I’d say come over here and help me pass the time, but you’re not exactly my type.’

‘Shut up, you sick fuck.’ Dean glances at his watch. Over two hours since he woke up, and he can only imagine what Sam is going through, trapped inside his own mind. Taking the dream root again is not an option; Azazel cannot be left awake in Sam’s body, devil’s trap or not. Dean has the sickening feeling that Azazel is not beyond harming Sam’s body just for the fun of it.

‘Although your little brother sure does think you’re tasty.’ The demon guffaws, tapping his forehead. ‘Oh, the things I’ve seen in little Sammy’s head. He sure—’ He breaks off suddenly, a slow grin spreading across his face.

‘What?’ Dean asks, despite himself.

‘Sammy’s got balls, I’ll give him that. Looks like my boy wants to have a little chat.’ Azazel lies down on the bed, crossing his hands behind his head and winking at Dean before closing his eyes. ‘Don’t wait up, now.’


	26. Dark

They follow the road through the night, the Impala’s headlights slicing through the dark. 

They’ve done this so many times before, chasing a monster through the darkness, just them and the car, that Sam wonders if it wouldn’t be so bad to be in this world all the time, just him and D, fighting side by side.

But then he remembers that Dean, the real Dean, is out there somewhere, and even if they haven’t been together for months, he’ll never abandon his brother.

In the dark, Before Sam Knew, when he shivered in the back seat while Dean and Dad spoke in low voices in the front, he’d long for the blanket fort. He’d learned that the low voices didn’t mean they didn’t want to wake Sam. They just didn’t want Sam hearing what they were saying. It made Sam feel more alone than he’d even known it was possible to feel.

But then Dad would stop at a gas station somewhere in the middle of nowhere and Dean would crawl into the back seat and cocoon Sam in their blanket, and it was two of them again, Dean’s warmth and closeness chasing away all of Sam’s imagined (so he’d thought) ghosts.

‘Hey,’ D says now, looking over from the driver’s seat. ‘You with me, babe?’

Sam is about to reply when a large, brightly-lit building looms up in the distance. ‘This is it.’

Something tightens inside his chest. Trust Azazel to rifle through Sam’s memories and choose this particular place as the rendezvous. 

D says nothing as the car rolls to a gentle stop in front of a perfect replica of the Cleveland Botanical Garden. 

Sam doesn’t hesitate before sliding across the bench seat and taking D’s face in his hands.

‘At least take the dogs with you,’ D whispers against his mouth, crushing Sam in his arms. 

Sam gasps at the force of the hug, welcoming it with fierce gladness. ‘No. I won’t give him anything to use against me. Against us.’

‘You sure he’s in there?’

Sam looks at the incongruously lit building that contains one of the happiest memories of all of his eighteen years of life. ‘I’m sure.’

‘I’ll be here,’ D says, and Sam knows he isn’t talking about now. He presses one hand to Sam’s chest and the other to his temple. ‘I’ll always be here.’

‘I know.’ Sam kisses him deeply. Sparks of warmth and tenderness travel from D’s fingertips where they’re buried in Sam’s hair, from his mouth, so firm and gentle over Sam’s, into Sam’s body. He takes as much strength from it as he can, hoping that the fact that his heart is breaking won’t count.

Then he steps out of the car, his fist tight around the long-ago army man that D has slipped into his hand, and walks into the Garden without turning back.


	27. Coat

Stepping inside the building, Sam is instantly transported back four years in time. Although it’s dark outside, the building is sunny and warm inside. It’s a crisp winter day, one of those that’s benevolent enough to let the sun out for a bit.

He sees his fourteen-year-old self, small and skinny in his navy blue school coat and the neatly pressed jeans he’d worn for the school trip. Dean is next to him, towering over him, already six feet tall and the most beautiful person Sam has ever seen. His arm is wrapped around Sam’s shoulders as he points up to something, an unusual creeper with muticolored flowers near the ceiling, and Sam looks up, dazzled by the flora, by Dean.

Later that day, over sandwiches and hot chocolate on the way back, Sam had come out to Dean.

‘Okay,’ Dean had said. His expression was frighteningly blank.

‘Okay?’ Sam pulled his coat closer around himself. ‘Is that... is that all you’re gonna say?’

His face must have betrayed something of his anxiety, because Dean slid out of his seat across the table from Sam and came and sat next to him. 

‘Yeah, Sammy. It’s okay. I, uh... I kinda already knew.’

‘How could you know?’ Sam whispered, stunned. ‘I only just figured it out myself.’

‘’Cause I know you better than you know yourself, squirt,’ Dean said, dropping a kiss on top of Sam’s head before stealing one of his fries, grinning. And Sam knew that it really was going to be okay, because Dean understood. Because Dean was with him.

—

Now, striding through the empty pathways of the Garden, surrounded by sunlight and beautifully cultivated flora, Sam squeezes the army figure in his hand. D had retrieved it from where it had been stuck in the car since Sam was four, and Sam knows why: he and Dean, their history, their whole lives, have been preparing him for this. Azazel is nothing, a wisp of demon-black smoke compared to what Dean is to Sam, everything they are to each other. Stanford hasn’t changed that, at least not for D. Sam pushes away the thought of how much Dean had been hurt by Sam’s leaving. There’ll be time enough to address that later. If he ever gets out of Azazel’s clutches.

‘Sammy, Sammy, what’s taking you so long?’ Azazel’s voice, faux-warm and friendly, conversational, rings through the greenhouse. 

One more corner, Sam knows. All he needs to do is turn one more corner and Azazel will be there.

The toy soldier cradled in his hand is coated with memory, its texture made of a childhood in which, despite all odds, Sam grew up mostly safe and very, very loved.

He drops to one knee and closes his eyes, concentrating harder than he ever has before.

_Let this work. Please, please, let this work._

_Dean, please._


	28. Ride

A full ride.

A full fucking ride to Stanford University, one of the best Ivy League schools in the country. 

Dean had stared at the letter for minutes, hours, he couldn’t tell. In front of him, Sam stood very still, nervousness pouring off him in waves. His lip was bitten red. 

If Dean could rewind time, he’d take the words out of his head, shape them into a smile, a hug, articulate the first thought that had come to his mind when he’d found out: _I’m so, so damn proud of you, kid. My kid._

But he hadn’t said or done any of it, because the second thought in his head, so painful, so poisonous—_Sam’s leaving, Sam’s leaving me—_had killed every possibility of explicit acceptance of Sam’s choice. 

He’d silently handed the letter back to Sam and left, trailing anguish so thick behind him he was almost surprised it hadn’t left bright red marks on the floor. 

—

_Sam is sixteen, and he’s riding Dean’s fingers like his life depends on it._

_‘Slowly,’ Dean says with a gasp as Sam clenches hard around his lube-drenched fingers. ‘Baby, you’ll hurt yourself.’_

_‘Trust me, I’m good.’ Sam grins down at him, wickedly sweet, straddling Dean’s lap and demanding all of his attention, all of his vision. _

_Dean has never been so happy to lose himself so completely._

_Later—an hour later, a day later, centuries later—they have sex in the car for the first time, Sam on his back, his hands up beside his head and braced on the window, Dean driving down against him, their bodies slippery with desire and moving urgently against each other. _

_Dean’s gaze catches on the toy soldier stuck in the ashtray, a shard of memory pushing into his mind and distracting him from the task of driving Sam out of his mind with pleasure._

_Following his gaze, seeing right into his mind, Sam cups Dean’s jaw with his hand, his fingers gentle, belying the strength of his naked thighs trapping Dean’s hips securely between them. _

_‘Hey,’ Sam says, soft. ‘It’s okay. It’s me. It’s us.’_

—

‘Sammy,’ Dean gasps, startling awake.

Azazel, in Sam’s unconscious body, is still lying exactly where he’d been.

In Dean’s mind, the image of the toy soldier is a vivid brand, blocking out everything else. He cries out and clutches his head as memories sizzle through it, driving him to his knees on the floor beside Sam’s bed. ‘Sammy?’

_Dean? Dean. Oh god. Oh, thank fuck._

There are more images tumbling through Dean’s head now, rapid-fire, like a film playing on fast forward. The Botanical Garden. Sam coming out to him. Sam kissing him under their blanket fort. Sam’s mouth everywhere on his body. Sam’s hole spasming under Dean’s tongue. Sam’s hair on Dean’s face when their mouths collide. Sam. Sam. Sam. 

‘Jesus Christ, Sammy. What—is that you? What’re you doing to me?’ Dean says aloud, wrecked. 

_Sorry. Sorry. I haven’t got the hang of this yet, it’s just, I can’t control it yet, sorry._ Sam’s voice is wonderfully clear in Dean’s head. They could be talking on the phone.

As though guided by an invisible force, Dean reaches for Sam’s still, silent body and clasps his hand, entwining their fingers securely. ‘This better?’

_Oh, wow. Yes. Wow. What’d you do?_

_I’m holding your hand_ seems way too maudlin a thing to say. ‘I’m here,’ Dean says. ‘I’m next to you.’

_Don’t—don’t speak out loud, okay? Don’t let him hear. Speak to me in your head._

_How are you doing this?_

_Don’t—don’t be afraid of me, Dean. I’m still me._

Dean is incapable of words, Sam’s unresponsive hand cradled in his own. 

_Dean, please._


	29. Injured

_Tell me what to do_, Dean thinks, squeezing Sam’s hand.

_You have holy water?_

_I can make some easily enough._ There’s gallons of running water in the bathroom, a rosary in the Impala’s trunk.

_Okay._ Sam sounds like he’s taking a deep breath. Dean aches to breathe with him, for him. There’s nothing he can say that will help Sam now, so he stays silent, gripping Sam’s hand, until Sam’s voice sounds in his head again, shaky but determined. _Okay. Here’s the plan._

—

Demons are laughably good at monologing. 

Sam learns that the boring way as Azazel goes on and on about his plans for Sam and his other ‘special’ children.

‘Enough,’ Sam says finally. ‘It’s no. My answer will always be no.’

‘Always is such an absolute word, Samuel.’ Azazel picks thoughtfully between his teeth with his yellowed thumbnail. ‘I’d more more... relative, if I were you.’

‘What does that even mean?’ _Dean, you ready? I don’t think I can do this much longer._

Dean’s reply is instant, clear as water in Sam’s head. _Ready when you are, Sammy. We got this._

The _Sammy_ unlocks something in Sam’s chest, pulling down a wall he hadn’t known was there. 

‘It means,’ Azazel says, ‘that you should really have only one conversation at a time. Your rudeness disappoints me, Samuel.’

‘Yeah?’ Sam steps to the side as Azazel takes a step forward. ‘What’re you gonna do about it?’

They circle each other slowly, boxers in a ring.

‘Who’s that you’re being so chatty with? Big brother? Hm?’ Azazel holds out his hand, palm facing Sam. ‘I could twist his neck in less than a heartbeat.’

‘He has you trapped, asshole.’ Sam mirrors Azazel’s position, hand held out.

Azazel smiles. ‘It takes more than a young hunter’s clumsily drawn trap to hold the likes of me, child.’

Sam pulls his fingertips inward, forming a fist. ‘Get out of me.’

Azazel’s body jerks slightly, his head tilting upward. The lips of his vessel part, revealing swirling black inside.

Sam tightens his grip. _Like poison from a wound._

_Like poison from a wound_, Dean echoes in his head. 

_Dean._ Sam’s body is quivering with strain, a machine about to fly apart.

Azazel’s lips are grinning now, smoke held within his mouth, his teeth like fangs. His outstretched hand closes, and invisible fingers clamp around Sam’s throat.

‘Did you think it would be so easy?’ Azazel says through wisps of smoke, poisonous threads entwining black with the sickliest yellow Sam has ever seen. 

He squeezes his hand, and Sam is forced to his knees, choking for breath. Invisible fingernails dig into his throat, breaking his skin.

‘Little child,’ Azazel says, affectionate, standing over Sam. ‘Sweet little child. The things I’ll teach you.’

_Dean!_


	30. Catch

‘Dean!’ 

Dean watches, transfixed with horror, as Sam’s body convulses on the bed, his eyes still shut tight, Dean’s name escaping his lips as though in a dying scream.

_No. No no no._

‘Hold on, Sammy!’

Grabbing the pail of holy water beside him, Dean flings it on Sam. 

Sam screams again, a terrible, unearthly sound. His body writhes, the water sizzling as it splashes over him, burning him.

_More. He needs more!_

Racing to the filled bath tub, Dean fills the pail again. And again. And again. Sam’s teeth are bared now in an eternal grimace, his body straining to eject the sickly yellow-gray smoke suffocating it.

It’s not enough. No amount of holy water is enough.

And as though _that_ weren’t enough of a disaster, another thought strikes Dean like a hammer: Sam is still surrounded by the devil’s trap. Even if he could, by some miracle, cast the demon out, Azazel would be caught in the trap. With nowhere to go but right back inside Sam.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

Throwing the empty pail aside, Dean steps into the devil’s trap and lifts Sam’s thrashing body in his arms.

Sam’s eyes fly open.

‘Almost there. Almost done, kiddo.’ Dean tries to sound as calm as possible, for Sam’s sake, even though he knows it’s Azazel looking at him out of Sam’s horrifyingly blank eyes.

Carrying Sam to the bathroom, he plunges Sam’s body into the tub full of holy water.

‘No!’ Sam screams, a wrenching wail that strikes straight at Dean’s heart. ‘Dean, you’re killing me,’ he sobs as Dean grabs his arms and holds him in the water.

Inside Dean’s head, Sam’s voice says, _Drown him in it_.

Dean forgets how to breathe.

_Dean, drown me! Do it!_

Grabbing Sam’s throat with both his hands, Dean pushes his head under the water and holds him there.

Bubbles of steam escape from Sam’s screaming mouth, his limbs thrashing, kicking, desperate for life, as Dean holds him down. His eyes are wide open under the water, begging, pleading.

_Come on, Sammy. We got this._ Tears are streaming down Dean’s face.

_Dean!_

Remembering how holding Sam’s hand earlier had helped him gain better control of his abilities, Dean throws himself into the tub over Sam’s body, covering him completely, holding him down. Still drowning him.

‘Sammy, you’re dying! Do it! Now!’

And then, against all odds, miraculously, he sees the water beginning to cloud as yellow smoke begins to pour from Sam’s mouth.

Grabbing Sam by the shoulders, Dean pulls his head out of the water. 

Sam’s body is completely limp now, still as a rag doll as his mouth lies helplessly open, Azazel pouring out of him in a poisonous cloud. 

Dean waits for the last wisp of smoke to leave Sam’s body before wrenching Sam’s shirt open, grabbing the sharpie from his pocket, and drawing the same anti-possession symbol on Sam’s chest that he’s drawn on his own.

‘Dean,’ Sam murmurs, his eyes opening. Water is trickling from his nose, his mouth, his ears. 

‘Hold on.’ Dean crushes Sam against his chest, keeping him pinned down, safe.

The smoke is whirling around the small bathroom in increasingly frantic circles, which get smaller and smaller as it swirls tightly around Sam and Dean, looking for a way in.

‘Get away from him,’ Dean snarls, his fingers gripping the crown of Sam’s head. Sam is shaking in Dean’s arms, his face pressed into Dean’s shoulder. ‘He’s not yours. He’ll never be yours.’

For a moment, the smoke snarls back, a gap like a fanged mouth opening in its thick cloud. Then it rears backward and up, spiralling away from them and smashing through the glass window, escaping into the night air.

And then all is blessedly quiet except for Sam’s gasping breaths.


	31. Ripe

Sam sleeps for sixteen hours. 

If he dreams, he doesn’t remember when he wakes up.

He’s warm and dry, cocooned in a blanket. Dean is on the same bed, facing Sam, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

‘Hey,’ Sam says, quiet, hoarse.

‘Hey yourself,’ Dean says, putting his hand on Sam’s hip. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Like I got hit by several trucks, but yeah. Apart from that, fine.’ He looks around. ‘We still at the motel?’

Dean shrugs. ‘He’ll find us wherever we are. Figured you needed the rest.’

‘He’ll never stop, Dean. He’s never gonna leave me alone.’

‘I know,’ Dean says simply, stating a fact. He nods toward Sam’s chest. ‘We’ll go and get those permanently inked asap.’

Sam looks down at the symbol Dean drew on his skin. ‘Matching tattoos, huh? Must be love.’

‘Shut up,’ Dean says, pushing Sam’s bangs out of his eyes. ‘Fucking asshole. I almost lost you.’

‘I was wrong,’ Sam says, Dean’s words reminding him of something.

‘About what?’ Dean looks wary. He drops his hand away from Sam’s face.

Sam takes his wrist, rubbing his thumb over Dean’s angular wristbone. ‘About D. About the... things he called me. His terms of endearment.’

‘I just called you an asshole. That’s hardly a term of endearment,’ Dean says, wry.

‘No, but you’ve used the same words D did.’

‘Stop fucking calling him that.’

‘You did. The first time we... the first time you put your fingers in me.’ Sam’s face heats a bit, not sure if they should be having this conversation now.

Dean blinks. Sam sees a flash of remembrance in his eyes.

_‘This okay, sweetheart?’ Dean’s mouth against Sam’s bare shoulder, his fingers crooking perfectly inside Sam, making him gasp and writhe._

‘You’re saying he was me,’ Dean says, sounding dazed. 

‘I think he was always you.’ Sam puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders. ‘Make the fort,’ he whispers.

Dean follows his gaze to the blanket pooled around Sam’s hips. He grasps the hem and pulls the thick, warm fabric over their heads.

The light from outside the window above their heads is bright enough to spill through the blanket and into the space between them. 

Sam cups Dean’s face, fingertips stroking over his cheekbones. ‘You saved me.’

‘You saved you,’ Dean says, his voice thick, as though with grief.

‘He’ll be back.’

‘You won’t have to face him alone. Ever again,’ Dean says, fierce. ‘As long as I’m around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you.’

There’s a future there, suddenly in bright sight, ripe with possibility like a low-hanging fruit with the headiest of fragrances, with the promise of sustenance for them both.

Sam reaches for it with both hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who followed this fic and left such encouraging feedback! See you next Inktober. :-D


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